


Nez: The Transformation

by paytontanner



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/M, Family, Friendship/Love, La Push, OC, Pack Dynamics, Wolf Pack, wolfpack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:58:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7384681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paytontanner/pseuds/paytontanner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wolf pack is transforming, and so is Natalie Nez. She thought her transformation, from a nobody to a (potential) somebody would give her the life she wanted. Then, her dad got a job in La Push. She thinks she's lost everything until she is the one everybody is looking for. Her history, her fate, it's more than she ever imagined, but is it more than she can handle?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was raining when we stepped into the truck and the weight of that did not escape me, or my mother.

"The rain," she said, reaching her hand out from under the umbrella, "it's a bad omen, Yuma." She held her hand out there, letting the offensive substance wet her sleeve.

My dad, dry as a bone underneath his disturbingly yellow poncho, only grinned. "Mary, the rain is our fresh start. It's cleaning away the old, and preparing us for something new. Simile! Metaphor! You're an English teacher. You love this type of symbolism!" He grabbed our luggage, tossing it cheerfully into the trunk, his smile unwavering. "I feel like a new man already!"

Mom rolled her eyes, but allowed a small smile to twist her lips.

The driver helped toss the luggage into the truck. "We're happy to have you here!"

His optimism was contagious on everyone; except for me. I pried open the rusty truck door and climbed onto the cracked leather seats. My head felt cool against the window, my hot breath clouding my view, blocking the dark landscape from my sight.

It was supposed to be my year at Windsor Park High School. I was transformed. The proverbial duck into a swan: I had lost weight, my acne medicine was finally working, I paid for highlights, I pierced my ears, I bought a whole new wardrobe, my braces came off! My freshman year, which was tinged with pudgy awkwardness was behind me. I was coming back as a new me; better, prettier, happier.

I had gone through all the steps. I had served my time at the bottom of the totem pole. Now, it was my time to be noticed. People were going to want to know me! They would know the name, Natalie Nez! I wanted it. I needed it.

I had always had attention for the wrong things. Saying the wrong thing, wearing the wrong clothes, liking the wrong boys, doing the wrong everything. Always. I bit my lip, holding back the lump lodged in my throat. I didn't want to be that girl, again. The one who could never figure out the rules of the game, despite how hard I tried to play. I was tired of always being wrong.

"Ready to go?" My thoughts were interrupted by the driver, glancing over at my dad in the passenger seat.

I wanted to yell. To slam open the door and run back in to the airport, back to the plane, back to my home, back to the life being stolen from me. It was all trickling out of my grasp, like the rain washing down the car window. I stared out it, feeling my eyes warm with tears. What was happening?

"I've been ready to go for the last two years!" My dad answered, "Take us home."

It was all being washed away with the rain, every hope I had.

* * *

 

"Merlin's beard, I've done it again, Natty."

My dad was staring at me through a hole in his armpit. His bright poncho had a gaping hole that he was blinking at me through.

"Dad, that's the third one this week!" I mumbled through the cereal jammed in my mouth, "Maybe the yellow is less durable." It was a poor attempt to sway him from the blinding color, but he didn't bite.

He shook his head, "That can't be it." He pulled it off, revealing a dark navy shirt, which was once a light shade of baby blue.

He most likely didn't even notice he had torn through it until long after. He's too cheerful to bother noticing the mundane.

I finished my cereal, throwing the dish in the sink and glancing out the window; rain, again. Back home, in the Midwest, I craved for days like this. Gray, drizzly days that offered valid excuses to stay inside. An escape from the humidity of the plains. However, the last two weeks of our life in La Push had been nothing but gray, drizzling, sunless days.

Most of my library had been donated and sold from home. All my battered copies I had brought along were almost read through. _Wuthering Heights_ , _Frankenstein_ , and _Pride and Prejudice_ were currently spread across my bed. Their pages were well read, especially Frankenstein. Something about that novel, the underlying spook and darkness really felt fitting here. As if a monster could also be walking the same streets outside my window.

I haven't even unpacked the shorts, tank tops, and sandals I had bought for my transformation. Another part of me going to waste in La Push.

"Can you go to the store and buy a few more? Mom's at the school, and I have to get back to work." He stuffed his poncho in the trash and reached for his wallet; opening up his bill pocket. "I'm just going to change and eat lunch. Then I'm heading back to the arena."

Dad pulled out a bill, pushing it my way. I took a step back, backing into the sink. "Dad, I can't - I don't -" He held the money out to me, giving me a pleading look. I glanced out the window. "I don't know my way around here. Can't you just pick up a poncho and something to eat?"

He sighed and abandoned his efforts, placing the money on the table beside me. "Natty, fewer people live here then there were in your class at home. There's nothing to worry about. They sell Poncho's at that place down the road - Clearwater's place."

He turned and walked up the stairs.

"People can be nice, Nattie. You just have to give them a chance."

"Dad!" I yelled, exasperated, "What if I can't find it?" My voice was betraying me, allowing my panic to color it. Not because I was scared of being unable to find a poncho, but because of something I couldn't name. "Who can I - I don't know -," I sputtered off, unable to voice a fear I couldn't even place.

He looked down at me, his face soft with kindness and patience. "Natty, sometimes I cast my pole hoping for a bass, but all I catch is a bluegill. Even though it's not what I wanted, I'm still happy for the bite." He winked at me reassuringly and disappeared up the stairs.

His affinity to end conversations in aquatic analogies was, at this moment, (and at most moments) not what I wanted.

I sadly watched his fleeting figure, wanting to cry for him to come back. Like a child begging to be walked into school on their first day. I didn't want to do this, not at all, but definitely not alone.

He hollered from the bathroom. "It'll be a yellow one for me, please!"

* * *

 

In Michigan when it rained we just waited for it to stop, and it did. The joke being, "Don't like the weather? Give it an hour, it will change." However, here, in La Push, the rain is just an always. Like the muddy streets, the constant salty air, and the towering pines - the rain is an always. Trudging through it, in my new, tall, stiff green mud boots, is a lot like trying to run on sand; difficult and unpleasant. The main difference being that in one scenario I am on the sunny beach, next to the ocean, and blue sky. In the other, I am here, in La Push.

_Ding_.

The bell overhead sings as I shove open the door to Clearwater's place. It's empty. No one at the checkout counter, or in the aisles.

They mostly sell the basic supplies. Many pairs of my matching mud boots, hunting supplies, cleaning products, and packaged foods. It's not much, but I suppose in a town this size it's more than I should expect.

I catch my reflection in a mirror across the store. I am a shapeless blob under a pile of waterproof clothes. My hair is tucked under a ball cap, and beneath my rain coat hood, which is (slightly too large) and comes down to the inch of my blue jeans before they get sucked into my giant, green boots. Correction: giant, muddy boots.

I have more mud on my boots than exists in all of La Push.

I notice there are several mats and pieces of cardboard piled beneath my feet. I stomp on them, trying to rid all the heavy mud, for the store's benefits, but also for mine. I'm not used to walking with all this mud underneath, trying (somewhat successfully) to make you slip, stumble, and fall. I try a new strategy of slightly jumping, which seems to work better. Big slabs of wet mud spread thick across the mats. Noticing the benefits of this technique I try jumping higher, delighted at the results.

I try a new strategy of slightly jumping, which seems to work better. Big slabs of wet mud spread thick across the mats. Noticing the benefits of this technique I try jumping higher, delighted at the results. With every stomp to the floor I get lighter.

"Excuse me."

I stop mid-spring, knees loaded for another jump. I look up to see a tall, dark-haired boy staring at me. His head is tilted slightly to the side, like a bewildered pup.

"Are you - "

I stand up straight, brushing myself off, "I'm fine." I assure him quickly, nodding my head furiously. "I was just - the mud, " I point to the floor in case he is unaware of this term, "mud."

He nods his head. So, he is familiar.

I mutter my way through an explanation of the effectiveness of this strategy, but midway through he points to something on the floor behind me.

It's a boot cleaner, with bristles. Perfect for removing mud from a person's boot, perfect for removing mud from _my_ boots. I look around at the floor around me, mud is splattered everywhere. I even spot specks of it climbing up the walls behind me.

I can feel a blush heating my cheeks, "Oh jeez, I'm so sorry. I didn't even notice that. I just thought, with all the mats and stuff…" I trail off my fumbling, "I'm really sorry. Do you have any rags? I can clean this all up. It will just take me a minute."

I stare up at the boy, hoping he will at least allow me to clean up my mess.

He says nothing, but a giant smile turns his lips and a loud, bark-like laugh erupts from him. "You're not from around here, are you?" he asks, knowing the answer already.

I shake my head, chagrined. What made it so obvious, I wonder sarcastically.

He holds out a giant hand, "I'm Seth Clearwater. My family owns this place."

I shake his hand, his friendly face making me feel at ease. "I'm Natalie Nez. We just moved here for my dad's job, he's an ichthyologist."

"Cool. I didn't know there were dinosaurs around here."

I grimace, "Actually, it's not that cool. Ichthyologist study fish, he received a grant to study the North Atlantic Gray-breasted Pike. He's from this way and it's a rare fish. In fact, it's protected by the U.S.D.A." Seth looks confused. "It's his dream, you see. He studied the Norwegian Spiked Blue Kelp for the last ten years, back in Michigan, but he says he needs to "spice things up", and the Gray Flattery is actually interesting. You see -"

Seth coughs and suddenly I realize that I had misplaced his look of confusion. No, not confusion, rather boredom.

He smiles. I apologize, again.

"Why don't I help you," he offers kindly, the smile never leaving his face. "Was there something you were looking for?"

"Yes," I say, taking a deep breath. "I need three red ponchos."

Seth's helpful, but more than that- I like him. His laugh bubbles up easily and his smile is the brightest thing I've seen in La Push yet. Seth and my dad would get along, both unflappable cheerful spirits.

At the checkout counter, Seth bags the ponchos, folding them neatly into the plastic.

I lean my elbows on the counter and twirl the jewelry holder, absentmindedly looking through the pendants.

"My grandfather makes those," Seth says, noting my interest, "Carves each one by hand."

I examine them closer, each one is unique; expertly whittled by skilled hands. The smooth lines and curves all pull out one figure from the wood; wolves. On every single one, there are wolves.

"Seth," I pull a pendant from the rack, "why do these all have wolves on them?" I stare at the one in my hand curiously. There are two wolves on it, one standing tall, and the other ducked underneath their neck.

"Haven't you heard?" Seth smirks, amused, "You've been in La Push for two weeks and no ones told you?"

"What do you mean?"

A car door slams outside and Seth peeks out before leaning in closer. I follow his stare, looking at the pendant in my hand.

He speaks lowly, "We've always said we are small, but mighty - The La Push Tribe. As long as our people have been here, there have been those who want the land, the rivers, the ocean. At first, we were forced from it, pushed to the sea, away from our homes. We were forced from the land that owned us more than we knew. Our hearts and our lives were waiting, waiting to return. Our spirits never wavered, they grew stronger, and in more than the usual way."

I interrupted, "What do you mean "more than the usual way?"

He twirled the jewelry stand, pulling a particular pendant off. He admired it. Tracing his finger along the lines of wood.

He held it up to me. "Some say it's just a legend, folklore that elders pass down to their children. Others, call it something else."

I examined the pendant, it was a man and a wolf. They looked like they were fighting, in a battle against each other.

"Others say it was magic that won back our lands. Magic that made our home, home again."

I looked at him skeptically, "They used magical wolves?" Just because I am new here doesn't mean I will believe every ridiculous local legend. "What are you saying, Seth?"

"No, not magical wolves. At least, the wolves aren't magical. Really, not even magic at all. More like a…a curse."

Despite my suspicions, I leaned in closer.

"A curse? What are you saying?"

"Flip the coin, Natalie. Tell me what you -"

 _Ding_.

A gust of wind whipped through the door. A tall, athletic woman was standing at the doorway, staring down. I followed her gaze.

"Seth, what is this mess?" she cried, looking up at him accusingly. "There is mud all over, and it's dry! What have you been doing?"

She was obviously his sister. The same tanned skin, freckled nose, and tall, lean figure. Their eyes were the same deep, almond brown, but where Seth's had a lightness, hers were all dark, like a pit.

Seth pushed the bag over the counter shoving it right into my hands. "Thanks," I mumbled, turning towards the door. Seth held onto my hand, pushing something into my palm. I don't know why, but I clutched onto it. Tucking it into my fist and holding on tight.

"Leah, isn't it your shift now? Aren't you running a little late?"

"If you think I am cleaning this mess up, you're wrong. _Your_ mess, on _your_ shift. _You_ clean." Leah stomped away with a quick glance in my direction. Or, more importantly, she glanced in the directions of my boots. The boots with the dried mud residue covering me with guilt. Her eyes slitted dangerously, but she said nothing. "You're not leaving until it's spotless, Seth."

I apologized, once more, and slipped through the doors.

* * *

 

I got home and threw the ponchos on the table.

My dad was sat there, taking the last bites of his sandwich. "Thanks, Natty," he said, and then upon further examination, "Good gravy, Natty. Red? Red?"

I barely heard him as I rushed to my room, too preoccupied for his disgruntled complaints. I locked the door behind me and tore off my rain jacket.

The light on my desk wasn't bright, but I clicked it on anyway. The coin in my hand had imprinted tiny lines into my skin. Seth's words had been playing in my head since I heard them, "Flip the coin, Natalie." I held the coin under the light. I wasn't buying into his "ghost legend", absolutely not. But, I couldn't help but be interested in his story.

A man and a wolf fighting. The same as before.

I flipped it over, holding back a gasp. The whittle carving was of a man changing, turning - _transforming_ into a wolf.

"The wolves aren't magical," Seth had said, but I hadn't got to hear him finish. Now, staring at the coin, I knew what he would have said.

"The wolves aren't magical - the people are."


	2. Chapter 2

Mom’s reading at the table when I walk into the kitchen. Her coffee in one hand, and a book in the other. 

“How’d you sleep, Natty?”

I slump into the chair across from her, laying my head on the table. “I never heard any coyotes in Michigan,” I complain. “Why must they be right outside the town?” 

Now, in the safety of sunlight, I felt much more brave thinking about the subject. Last night, I had curled myself under the comforter, listening to the eery call of the vicious animals. Their hollers made my stomach curl into tight knots that I couldn’t unwind. 

A reassuring hand smoothed my hair, “You will get used to it.”

“I don’t want to get used to it.” The trees, this house, this life, I didn’t want any of it to become normal. 

Mom sighed, “It’ll work out, Natty. Even though it doesn’t feel like it, this is where I grew up, and your father right down the road, in Forks. You’ll find your place here soon. I know it.” 

No, I wanted to scream. I didn’t want to get used to this. How could I belong here, in La Push? The connections my parents had to this land, to this town, to these people - they were not my connections. 

“Then why did you leave it?” I scrape my chair back, looking at her accusingly. “If you are so tied to this land then why are you only coming back now, after all these years? Why did you run away to Michigan? Why didn’t you stay?” 

I’m surprised at her reaction. She doesn’t look defensive, instead she looks hurt. A wave of shame washes over me as I watch her eyes change. I wish I could take the words back.

“Mom, I -“

The front door swings open, “Who wants eggs?” 

Dad is holding a carton, a gleaming smile on his face. 

Mom stands up and dumps her coffee in the sink. “Sorry, Yuma, I’m not hungry.” 

She shuffles into her bedroom and closes the door behind her. I can fight the tears, but not the feeling of guilt building in my chest. 

“Eggs, Natty?”

I shake my head. “I’m not hungry, either.” 

Dad takes it in stride, and shoves the eggs in the fridge. I wonder if he even notices the tension in the air? He remains cheerful, smiley, and bright, but doesn’t he feel it? Is he so oblivious to it?

When he looks at me I see nothing but glee behind his eyes. I look away before I say something to hurt him too. 

“Come down to the marina with me.” He grabs my rain jacket off the hook, “There’s something I want you to see.” 

My voice is faint, “Dad, I really don’t feel like going. I’m just going to go lay down.”

He responds before I’ve closed my mouth, “Nonsense.” He grabs my hand and pulls me out the door. 

**  
The marina is not state-of-the-art. Instead, it’s old, musty, and gray. The floors are sticky, the salty air has built up a permanent grind on the walls, windows, and doors. The windows all peer into giant tanks, forty of them. They are all filled with the same fish - the North Atlantic Gray-breasted Pike; Dad loves it. 

He leads me by each tank, an endless buzz of facts, antidotes, and fond memories for each one. “This one houses the shoal of fish from the ninth district area. They have the most peculiar-“

“Shoal?” 

“School of fish,” he answers without a flinch and continues, “breathing pattern when they become injured. They breathe in order to give support to another…”

He continues talking, but my interest wanes as I spot a figure down the hall. In the door frame, he leaves little space around him for light to escape. He’s just a shadow, but his bulking shoulders and rippling muscles are easily spotted. 

“Are you listening?” 

I lie and nod.

“This is the only shoal to display this unique ability…” 

We’re making our way closer to the man. My breathe begins to shorten. His giant stature is more impressive the closer we move. The man’s chest is defined even underneath his shirt and his long legs are wrapped in muscle. My fingers tingle as the man ducks under the door frame, stepping out from the darkness. I can feel a strange energy running underneath my skin. 

Under the fluorescent bulbs of the arena, his eyes are dark, and the defined lines of his jaw give way to a scratchy stubble. His nose is sharp, his lips pulled tight.   
“This next room is the infirmary. That is what I wanted to show you because…”

Suddenly the man turns, as if he knew I was looking at him. His coffee colored eyes meet mine with a look of caution. The intensity makes me uncomfortable.

“Dad,” I whisper, grabbing his sleeve. “Do you know that man?”

He looks over my shoulder, a friendly smile all ready gracing his lips. 

“That’s Paul.” A single hand raises in a cheerful hello. “He works here during the summer.”

That body-builder works here? With my dad?

“I actually needed to ask him a question.” He glances down at me, “Would you give me a minute?” 

I peek back at the man. He’s looking at us, but his face in unreadable. Something in me wants to say no. Actually, wants to scream it. 

Instead, I nod my head, and Dad slips away, his bouncy walk in contrast with the stoic stranger. 

They disappear into a room. Dad’s easy chatter slips down the hall.

I shake off the strange sensation.

The room in front of me is the only door along a long wall of tank windows. There’s sign marked in big, bold letters, “FISH INFIRMARY.” I peek through a small, circular window resting at the top of the door. Tables are pushed against every wall in the room, each holding a fish-less tank. Aside from one. 

I look over my shoulder once more, and push open the door. Right away, the smell hits me. A rotten smell that makes me want to hold my breath. Like something his been left to rot, shrivel, and turn into dust. I cover my mouth and plug my nose with my hand. 

The tank in the middle of the room is shaped like a cylinder. It runs from the floor all the way to the ceiling, wide enough that I couldn’t even wrap my arms around half of it. Bubbles slide up the glass as I move around it, examining it more closely. 

There’s something at the top of the tank.I stand on my tip toes, hoping for a better angle - it’s a fish, floating belly up. That explains the smell. 

I take a minute to make sure the other tanks are empty. How strange. Fourteen tanks, all empty, except one, and the fish is dead. 

“Doesn’t seem like this fish needs the infirmary,” I run my hand along the cool glass. “It’s already dead.” It’s lifeless body floats with the motion of the bubbles as they run up the tank. I stare at it carefully, examining it for external injury. Nothing. 

 

Then, something happens. The fish moves, just a little, but without a doubt. It’s colorless body, still lifeless and belly-up, dips completely under the water. 

I glance out the door’s window. “This can’t be usual,” I mutter. With my face pressed flat against the glass, I search for some sort of filter that is creating air bubbles, giving explanation to the quickly recovering fish. There is nothing there. 

But the fish still moves, slowly cutting through the water. My fingers buzz against the glass, that same energy running through my veins once again. The fish slips with ease through the water. It doesn’t swim, it just moves. My breathe begins to fog up the glass as the fish continues to move, closer - to me. 

Then, it stops, floating impossibly, lifeless before my eyes. My hand twitches. 

I wipe my palms on my jeans, “What are you nervous for, Natty?”

I squint my eyes, leaning close up to the glass, pushing both palms flat against it, wanting to examine it more closely. 

“There must be an air tank in here somewhere?” 

Suddenly the fish jumps, a livelier shade of gray coloring its lifeless body. 

“What the hell!“

Its tail flaps, and its fins perk up in quick flutter. It swims by my hands, stalling against them for a brief moment. 

I step back. “What-? How did that -? I thought you were dead,” I baffle. “You were dead. You were at the top of the tank, belly up. Dead.” 

The door swings open behind me. I twist around, still unable to comprehend what happened. 

“Natty, what’s wrong?” Dad looks concerned at my startled expression, but then he sees it too. “Holy catfish,” his eyes follow the fish whirring through the tank, “I thought that fish was-“

“Dead,” I finish for him. “Me too.”


End file.
